But for the Asking
by FinnFiona
Summary: Who’d have thought George Weasley would have such a rough go of it with a lousy marriage proposal? Certainly not him. He seeks out a whole slew of advice—which hardly seems to help, until… George/Angelina and a touch of nearly everyone else.


**Author's Note: Yes, Steph, I **_**finally**_** finished it—not without your help, of course. And to anyone who's interested, the next chapter of **_**Seconds**_** is already in the works, I promise. Thanks for your patience! And now…I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

George Weasley was growing anxious. The ring had been burning a hole in his sock drawer for months, but he just couldn't get up the courage to ask her. He wanted to—of course he wanted to. He'd bought the blasted ring, hadn't he?

But the pressure… it was nigh unbearable. What if he said the wrong thing or did it the wrong way? What if—horror of horrors—she said no? These thoughts (whenever he slipped up and let them stray into his head) sent shivers up his spine that were at least ten times worse than when Ron was confronted with a spider. And that was saying something.

It seemed as though nearly everyone he knew was married. Well, technically speaking, Oliver and Katie weren't married yet—but at least Oliver had managed to propose. Oliver! He was notoriously bad at that sort of thing. George wasn't that hopeless, was he?

George let out an explosive sigh, feeling his frustration begin to blur the line with determination. Shooting off the couch, he grabbed his coat before calling to Angelina that he wouldn't be gone long and throwing the Floo powder into the fire. He barely had time to register the bewildered expression on her face before he spun out of sight.

* * *

Dusting himself off from the communal fireplace, George took the stairs two at a time as he made his way to the top floor, quickly moving to knock insistently on the first door he came to.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" came Oliver's irritated voice. George's rapping knuckles nearly conked his friend on the forehead as he threw open the door. "George!" he exclaimed, as he ducked out of the way. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he added with a sarcastic grin.

"Is Katie home?" George asked as he walked into the small flat.

"Please, do come in," Oliver said wryly as he followed George into the sitting room. "And no, she has a late shift at work tonight."

"Good, I need to talk to you," George said matter-of-factly, plopping himself down on the couch.

Oliver sat down next to him, shifting uncomfortably. He wasn't usually one for meaningful chats, but if George was this tightly wound about something, he couldn't exactly say no.

When George didn't say anything right away, Oliver sighed and leaned back against the cushions. "Look, George, I kicked your lousy arse from here to Tuesday every time you hesitated as a Beater, and I'm not about to start being lenient now. Spill the beans or get your bum off my couch," he said with a lopsided smile—enough to let George know he was just trying to get him to loosen up.

"I want to marry Angelina," George burst out, staring intently ahead.

"Well we all sort of guessed that, mate," Oliver said with a hearty laugh, relieved that this wasn't more serious. Unless… "Nothing's happened to change your mind, has it?"

"No, no, nothing like that," George assured him, relaxing a bit now that he'd gotten started. "I just… I don't know how to… propose," he flushed, somewhat embarrassed to say it out loud. "How did—how did you do it?"

Oliver laughed harder now as his eyes unfocused, remembering. "Not easily," he admitted. "I'm not even sure I planned it at all. I wanted to ask her, of course. Well, I wanted her to marry me, at least. But I could never make myself really think about it—scared the living daylights out of me, to tell you the truth. Then one day we were just walking in Diagon Alley, enjoying an ice cream, and I saw a ring in the window and—I don't know, really. I just asked."

George let out a low whistle. He supposed it made sense—as methodical as Oliver was as a Quidditch Captain, he was endlessly spontaneous in life. Maybe the Pitch was the only thing he felt he could bring order to—George didn't know. But George did know that he could never be that impulsive. Even when he was younger, it had been Fred who made the rash decisions. Especially now, George liked to have at least a vague plan—it made him feel secure, like everything would be alright as long as he'd thought things through.

Oliver took in George's expression and smiled. "It wouldn't suit everyone, George. I'm surprised it even worked for me. But listen, it's really the girl that matters. If you have her, then the rest is just the crowd at a Quidditch match—they can be good or bad, but in the end, they're just background."

George met Oliver's sympathetic eyes and tried to smile in return, but his stomach was still tied up in knots. He knew he had the right girl, but… "Yea, thanks Oliver, I know what you mean," he said as he stood.

"What? Not going to stay for a Butterbeer?" Oliver questioned as he stood as well.

"No, not tonight. I'd really better be getting home before Ange starts to worry."

"Ah," Oliver said with a knowing grin, "well good luck mate—just tackle it head-on, eh?"

"Right, Wood, thanks for that stunning pep talk," George joked, though his eyes betrayed his gratitude. "Let's get together for that drink this week, though, alright?"

"I'll send you an owl," Oliver agreed as George let himself out.

* * *

George had intended to go home. Yet instead, he found himself walking down the cobbled street, lost in thought. Looking up, he was only mildly surprised to find himself in front of another old brownstone he knew quite well. Praising his feet for knowing where to take him, he bounded up the front steps and rang the bell.

"Hello?" came a familiar voice, slightly distorted by the tinny speaker.

"Oi, Lee! Let me in, you git!" George called, forcing the levity into his voice.

Lee's laughter on the other end was infectious, though, and filled George with a little more hope than he'd had of late. "Come on up then!" Lee said as he caught his breath, and the front door clicked open.

George accepted the Butterbeer this time as Lee led him into the kitchen. "Is Alicia out?" George asked as they took their seats at the old Formica table.

"Took her Mum to dinner," Lee replied with a nod. "I don't expect her home for awhile—they like to talk, the Spinnet women."

"Not Spinnet anymore—you're married," George corrected, desperate for a segue into why he was really there.

"I know, I was there, if you'll recall," Lee replied sardonically. "Something on your mind, George?" he added, moderately concerned when George didn't retort.

George's brow furrowed. "How did you… pop the question?"

Lee's eyes widened. "Are—are you…?" he stammered, then swatted George on the arm without waiting for a response. "Why didn't you tell me?" he exclaimed.

"If I had told you then it would have been worse when I couldn't do it," George answered honestly.

"Oh, please," Lee scoffed, eager to reassure his friend, "don't worry about that. It's all in the presentation, right? You remember—I bought those fireworks from you? Well, actually, first I asked her on my program—she always has the wireless on at work—I asked her to come to the Harpies match that night. Ginny'd cleared it for me to put on the victory show after the match—they were playing the Cannons, so they were a shoe-in to win. Anyhow, I reworked a few of the fireworks beforehand—no offense to your skills, of course—but I wanted them to spell out, 'WILL YOU MARRY ME?' It was a spectacular display, she just loved it," Lee finished effusively.

George nodded, not wanting to dampen his friend's excitement. Though George made a mental note to develop a new product line for the shop—perhaps a "Rocket Writers" series—he wasn't so sure that Angelina would personally appreciate anything quite so… flashy.

"I'll keep that in mind," George said finally, making to leave. "I hate to drink and run—but I ought to be getting back. I'll let you know how it goes."

"You'd better!" Lee said with another playful smack on the arm. "It'll be fantastic, whatever you do—I mean, you're George Weasley for Merlin's sake!"

George grinned in what he hoped was an appreciative manner, but privately, he didn't feel so confident in his supposedly legendary abilities.

* * *

George woke early from a fitful night's sleep, rolling dejectedly onto his back. Glancing at the slumbering form beside him, he felt the anxiety settle back into his stomach with a whoosh and a definitive bang.

He really didn't think he was cut out for this.

It wasn't as though he couldn't take a risk, or orchestrate some semblance of a plan under normal circumstances, but this is was too important.

He had the right girl, sure. And yes, George Weasley was capable of putting on a show. But George's lack of sleep proved that his friends' advice hadn't quite resonated with him. There was still something tugging at his insides, some crucial piece of information that eluded him, preventing him from action.

With a great sigh, he heaved himself out of the bed. There was nothing for it—he'd have to go to his family.

Sure, George would normally welcome his family's advice. But with the Weasleys, you were lucky if a secret held out more than a few hours. And this wasn't really information he was looking to have spread around, lest he risk personal embarrassment, or worse, Angelina finding out ahead of his (seemingly eternally postponed) schedule.

Yet George was desperate. Well, truth be told, he'd moved beyond desperation several weeks ago and was now firmly entrenched in panic. The more time that went by, the more he doubted himself. He'd nearly convinced himself that it was a now or never proposition—either act fast, or risk losing her forever.

* * *

George hesitated as he signed the note he was leaving for Angelina. Well, he thought morosely, at least if his goal was to surprise her, his distant attitude and mysterious disappearances would have thrown her off the scent better than the food at a Deathday party.

Making his way into the still-quiet streets of Diagon Alley, George mentally evaluated his options. He'd always valued his dad's guidance, he considered… at least when they steered clear of a topic that could be tied back to Muggles.

Though, since when had Arthur Weasley not been able to relate a story to some Muggle contraption or another? Besides, George thought with a glance at his watch, it was still a bit early for his father to be at work.

A shiny glint caught George's eye as he lowered his wrist. Stooping to pick up the silver sickle from between the cobbles, an idea struck him.

A few minutes later found George walking hesitantly up to the Gringott's teller counter. He'd never been in here this early, and the Goblins had obviously made a wise choice in who would work the overnight to early morning shift. George had never seen a more intimidating crowd of supposed customer service liaisons in his life.

"Is Bill Weasley in?" George asked the nearest Goblin, clearing his throat.

"Certainly, sir," the Goblin said shortly, "right this way please."

"I knew I'd find you here," George called as he made his way among the rows of desks to the lone figure of his oldest brother. "Honestly Bill, you work too much."

Bill's head snapped up from behind a monstrous pile of papers. "I don't see you trying to support three children," he half-snapped, obviously consternated by the file open in front of him.

"No, but I'd like to…" George mumbled as he took the seat next to Bill's desk.

Bill's face softened as he took in George's words. "That's wicked, George—and sorry for the biting retort, this case is really giving me the run-around."

George tried mightily to bite back his laughter. "You're too old to say 'wicked,' Bill," he said when he regained his breath. "I don't care how long you keep your hair."

"Hey!" Bill exclaimed in mock-indignation. "Do you want my help or not? I assume that's why you're here at such an early hour—for some advice?"

George couldn't help but smile at Bill's being constantly in big-brother mode. "Yes, as a matter-of-fact," George plowed ahead. "I was just wondering—what do you think is, erm… important, in a marriage proposal?" he asked, wanting to avoid his real problem: that he didn't even know what was _unimportant_ in this task.

"Having a rough time of it?" Bill asked with understanding. George berated himself for thinking Bill couldn't see right through him. "No matter," Bill went on, "it's an easy enough answer: the ring. The ring is the most integral part of the whole business."

"The ring?" George asked incredulously. "But weren't you always telling us back then not to judge Fleur by appearances? Her not caring about looks and material things and all that?"

"Well, right, of course," Bill hastened to explain, "but that's not quite what I meant. Not that every girl doesn't appreciate a nice piece of jewelry, I might add—you'd do well to remember that—but anyhow, I meant the sentiment behind the ring. Of all the things that come out of a proposal, the ring is what lasts—the tangible reminder of your commitment. If you can show her how much you care with that, you'll be much better off."

"So… what did you do?" George asked, thinking this whole affair was much more complicated than he'd thought.

"Fleur had always talked about a ring she remembered her grandmother wearing as a child… Fleur's grandmother had gotten it from her own grandmother before her, and so on. She'd always told Fleur stories about the women who wore it, the lives they led and the adventures they had. Fleur and her grandmother were very close…" Bill trailed off, lost in thought.

"So you got the ring then?" George asked, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. Bill could be something of a romantic at times.

"What?" Bill started, though he couldn't entirely wipe the dreamy smile off of his face. "Oh, right. So this ring—when Fleur's grandmother died unexpectedly when Fleur was 9 or 10, the ring seemed to disappear. Talking about her grandmother always seemed to make her mother very… glum, so Fleur never got up the nerve to ask about it… But on a visit to France, I pulled Fleur's mum aside and asked her about the ring. She had it, as it turned out, hidden at the bottom of her jewelry box. And she was more than pleased to connect it to a happy memory again, so that's what I used."

"And Fleur liked that?"

"Oh, very much," Bill replied with a mischievous grin.

"Spare me the details," George said quickly, holding up his hands. "Anyhow, I ought to let you get back to work," he added, gesturing at Bill's cluttered desk.

"I suppose so," Bill agreed sullenly. "Good luck, George—it'll be brilliant, you'll see."

George nodded his thanks and showed himself out, racking his brains for some significant ring. But he couldn't remember _any_ kind of special jewelry he'd ever heard Angelina talk about—she hardly wore any, herself. Her mum didn't even wear more than a simple gold wedding band… George couldn't even think of a stone or design that would have any special significance to Angelina. Other than the logo of her favorite Quidditch team, he thought with a laugh.

George glanced at the clock as he walked between the heavy Gringott's doors. Perhaps his father would be into the office by now…­

* * *

"Dad?" George ventured tentatively from the doorway, not wanting to startle his father into spilling his steaming cup of coffee.

Too late. "George!" Arthur exclaimed, sloshing the hot liquid down the front of his robes, causing him to let out a string of curses to rival Charlie.

"Sorry Dad!" George said, running to take his father's work case from his hand and set down the cup of coffee while Arthur pulled out his wand to clean himself up and perform a quick cooling charm.

"Quite alright George, quite alright…" Arthur muttered, then looked up at his son with slight alarm. "Wait—what are you doing here so early—nothing's wrong, is it?"

"No, no, I'm fine—everyone's great."

Arthur relaxed and sat down on the edge of his desk, gesturing for George to take the chair. He gave George an appraising look before gently asking, "are you sure nothing's wrong, son?"

George sighed. Was he really that transparent today? "Well, no—not exactly," he started, still finding it difficult to broach this particular subject.

"Is it about Angelina?" Arthur ventured carefully.

George's head shot up. "How did you know?" he asked incredulously.

"I may not pester you kids as much as your mum, George, but I pay attention," Arthur replied with a wry smile. "I see the… shall we say, furtive looks you shoot in Angelina's direction."

"Oh…" George said in a small voice. He hadn't meant to be so obvious.

"It's alright George, I'm your father—I'm supposed to notice these things," Arthur said kindly. "So what seems to be the problem?" he went on, bringing things back to business, as he knew George would want—still not liking too much of anything that even resembled pity thrown in his direction.

"Well, I'm—I'm thinking about asking her to marry me," George said, averting his gaze.

"That's wonderful, son!" Arthur cried. "Just wait until I tell your mother, she'll be thrilled!"

George couldn't help but smile—his mum had been dropping not so subtle hints for years now. But… "I wish you wouldn't tell her just yet, Dad… I… I'd like to be able to tell her myself, when it's official."

"Oh, of course, of course," Arthur nodded hastily, though George thought his father suspected George's ulterior motives; his mum was probably the worst in the family at keeping good news under wraps.

Arthur's brow knitted once more, though, as he asked, "But that doesn't sound like a problem, George—did something happen to change your mind?"

"No, I just can't figure out what the bloody hell to do," George nearly whined.

"Ah…" Arthur grinned knowingly. "That can be tough—want to get it perfect and all... I can tell you what I did for your mother, if that'll help."

"Please," George breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn't have to ask outright. "But no mushy stuff, alright Dad? I just had breakfast," he hastened to add.

Arthur gave his son a disparaging look, then smiled. "Alright then… well, we were still quite young, your mother and I. You know we ended up eloping, of course—but that doesn't mean I didn't do a proper proposal, mind you! Well, I tried at least," he chuckled. "I didn't have enough money at the time for a decent ring, and I can't say I inherited my mother's silver tongue, but I could take your mum somewhere that was important to us. Place has a very significant role to play in these kinds of things, you know, our memories are often tied to them very firmly."

"How did you decide on a good place then?" George asked, already trying to figure out where would carry the most meaning for him and Angelina.

"Well that was easy," Arthur replied. "The top of the Astronomy Tower was always our spot—that was the first class we talked to each other in, in our first year. And it was the first place we—well," he shot a glance at George, "the first place we kissed. We used to go up there a lot, to tell you the truth. Your mum always liked being so close to the stars—she said it made her feel free, like she could do anything; like all of the truly frightening things going on didn't matter—your uncles, Gideon and Fabian, they were already off building the resistance at that point. Anyhow, up on that tower, the pressure just lifted off, and there weren't any limits—no one could tell us we were foolish for trying to be together, for loving each other…" Arthur trailed off with a far-off smile.

George was too sobered to tease his father with a gagging face. He'd never really thought about how tough things must have been for them back then. He'd barely survived one war with the ability to love intact—how had his parents survived two? Though, George thought, thank Godric they had…

"That sounds really… lovely, Dad," George said quietly.

"It was, son," Arthur smiled, "but remember—just because it worked for us, doesn't mean it's right for you."

"Yea, I don't have any strong affection for the Astronomy Tower—nearly fell asleep most nights," George quipped.

Arthur just gave him the look that said 'you know that's not what I meant,' but smiled again.

"Well," George went on, bypassing the pointed message, "thanks for your help, Dad. I think I'll go make the rounds before work."

"Oh, get as much advice as you can," Arthur said knowingly.

George shook his head—was no thought sacred? "I will, Dad, trust me."

"We'll see you for dinner Friday?"

"Wouldn't miss it," George said, making his way out of the office.

"Bring Angelina!" Arthur called, prodding.

George just shook his head again and continued to walk down the hall. He hesitated as he came to the door of the Minister's suite. True, this particular brother loved to give advice, but…

No, George thought, desperate times called for desperate measures—isn't that what they always said? Steeling himself, he pushed open the door and walked inside.

* * *

"Sorry to keep you waiting, George," Percy huffed as he opened the door to the inner office and ushered him inside. "Had an urgent call from the Canadian Minister this morning. Well, at least _he _thought it was urgent, I don't really think geese qualify," Percy muttered as he closed the door and took the seat behind his desk. "So," he continued brightly, "what can I do for you? The Minister's not in, as yet, I'm afraid," he added, gesturing to the darkened office behind him.

"Actually, I came to see you, Perce," George replied.

"Me?" Percy asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Don't act so shocked," George deadpanned, though he knew that even after all these years, Percy was still sometimes caught off-guard when the family sought him out.

"Sorry," Percy replied with a twitch of his lip. "Any special reason or were you just in the neighborhood?"

"Well, sort of a special reason, I guess," George admitted, deciding it was best to just cut to the chase. "I was wondering if you could tell me about proposing to Audrey," George asked in one breath, glancing at the picture of Percy and his wife with their then newborn daughter.

"Oh!" Percy exclaimed, eyes lighting up. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, I don't know," George shrugged, "anything… relevant."

"It's all relevant, George," Percy said with that look over his glasses that George still found irritating. "Wait… are you asking because…" Percy asked, eyes growing wide.

"Blimey, for such a smart bloke, Perce, you really can be thick sometimes," George smirked.

"I knew it!" Percy cried. "I knew you two would get married, I've been saying so for years—"

"Yes, Percy, you're Merlin's gift to the Wizarding World," George cut him off, neglecting to point out that probably everyone had put that particular puzzle together. "But I haven't officially asked her yet, so…"

"Right! Well—it's a proposal, so, naturally, it's the words that you've got to focus on," Percy said, launching into full professor mode. I must have written at least a dozen drafts… I probably still have the final copy in one of these folders, let's see…" he trailed off, bending down to rifle through his magically extended file index.

"No, no, that's alright Percy," George stopped him quickly. "You can just give me the gist, eh?"

"I suppose," Percy admitted, only a little put-out. "First I poked around to find out what kind of authors and style of voice she preferred," Percy began.

"Leave it to you to do research," George mumbled.

Percy simply pursed his lips and went on. "So it turns out Audrey is _quite_ the poetry connoisseur. Her dad is a Muggle-born though, so it was mostly writers I'd never heard of. I asked her best friend from back home though—you remember Máire, from the wedding? Anyhow, there's this Irish Muggle poet, Yeats, that Audrey likes. So I used one of his verses… You know," Percy said, as the tell-tale Weasley flush began to work its way up his neck, "I told her how much she means to me and how I wouldn't have gotten through those past couple of years without her… Anyhow," he cleared his throat, "it was a good speech."

For once, George didn't have the heart to take the mickey out of his older brother, though a part of him still wanted to laugh at the choreography of it all. "I'm sure it was, Percy," he said instead. Besides, George had to admit that Percy had a point—what was a marriage proposal if it didn't communicate what you wanted to say? "Well—I'll get out of your hair, then—let you attend to those geese," George said, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Good luck, George," Percy said, overlooking the slight. "Let me know if you want to look at those drafts."

"Will do, Percy, will do," George assured him as he meandered back to the hallway. Making a quick decision, he turned left towards the stairs that would take him directly to the Auror's office. After all, it really wouldn't be fair not to consult _all_ of his brothers—blood or not—would it?

* * *

"Hello," George said brightly to the pretty young witch sitting at the receptionist counter, "I'm here to see Harry Potter."

"Oh, erm… just a moment," she floundered, obviously trying to decide what to do. She must be new, George thought. The old wizard who had sat at this desk before used to let him by with a nod, no questions asked.

With an apologetic smile, the witch rose from her chair and practically scampered off to an office just down the hall.

"Sir?" George heard her ask tentatively at the door. "Mr. Potter, sir? There's someone here to see you."

"Any idea who it is, Olivia?" Harry asked patiently from within.

"Oh…" Olivia winced, glancing back at George, who waved expectantly. "I think… I think it's one of your brothers-in-law…?"

Harry laughed. "Well, I have a few of those… Send him in, then."

Olivia motioned for George as she made her way back to the front desk.

"Oh, and Olivia!" Harry called before George reached the door.

George came to a halt as Olivia scurried back into the doorframe ahead of him. "Yes, sir?"

"Well, first off—don't call me sir; it makes me sound like my old Potions professor. But second, the rules that apply to Ron—you met him yesterday, remember?—apply to any of my brothers-in-law."

"Oh! Yes, sir—I mean, yes, Mr. Potter," and Olivia hurried away.

"And what rules are those?" George asked with a raised eyebrow as he came into the office at last.

"George!" Harry exclaimed. "Have a seat," he continued, conjuring a chair into the center of the cramped office. "It's the same rules as before—that any of you can drop in whenever you like."

"Really? I thought we made a few suggestions on that policy last time around," George replied with a raised eyebrow.

Harry's brow knitted for a moment before his memory kicked into place. "Olivia!" he called again. She popped into the doorframe within moments—if he didn't know better, George wouldn't be surprised if she'd Apparated there. "I forgot to mention—that rule doesn't apply if the said brother-in-law is Percy and he has a memo in his hand."

Olivia nodded fervently and ducked out.

"Tut, tut, Harry," George admonished mockingly, "if you can't retain the wisdom we impart on you…"

"What can I say? It's hard to train new staff," Harry said with a grin.

"At least you hired a looker," George said slyly, an idea beginning to form in his brain.

"Erm, sure… Are you… looking?" Harry responded dubiously.

"Are you?" George countered.

"Of course not!" Harry quickly replied, squirming a little in his seat. Yes, George thought, he could definitely have fun with this.

"Good, I wouldn't want to see my baby sister get hurt," George said with a straight face.

"I don't know what you're on about," Harry said—obviously wondering when the joke was coming, but just nervous enough under George's sudden scrutiny to second-guess himself.

"Is she happy? Do you treat her well?" George shot off.

"I—I hope so, I try to," Harry replied, growing more flustered. "Isn't it a little late to be putting me through my paces…?"

"That's right," George said, zeroing in. "You're already married now…"

"Right, so—I don't think that she—"

"You might've tricked her into it somehow," George interrupted him. "How did you do it? How did you get her to marry you?"

"I didn't _trick_ her into marrying me, I asked," Harry said, growing indignant.

George couldn't help but break into a wide grin as Harry gripped the arm of his chair.

"What are you smiling about?" Harry asked, deflating.

"Honestly, Harry, sometimes you're easier to wind up than ickle Ronniekins—and far more fun…" George trailed off, chuckling.

"Well…" Harry smiled sheepishly. "That was a dirty trick, though, George," he quickly added with a put-on sullen frown.

"In all seriousness, Harry," George pressed on, "how _did_ you propose to Ginny?"

Harry considered George for a moment in that way that made George wonder just what they were teaching Aurors these days—Ron had never mentioned Legilimency in his brief stint at the Ministry, but all the same… "Pretend she's not my baby sister for the moment, if you have to," George added, wanting a straight answer from Harry—George was running out of people to ask, after all. "I'm just, er… I'm just looking for ideas."

Harry's eyebrows shot an inch up his forehead, but he had the good grace not to inquire further. "Let's see…" he began slowly. "I suppose I bought the ring first—well, to tell you the truth, I bought the ring long before I proposed."

"You did?" George asked carefully, thinking of his own purchase lying amongst his socks at home.

"Well, yea, I did," Harry flushed. "But when I was honest with myself, I… I wasn't quite ready then—neither was she, really. See, it's all about... timing," Harry finished with an assertive nod, as though he'd found the right answer at last.

"I assume you don't just mean the proper point in the evening or when it will come as a surprise," George said, though he was already finding what he knew Harry meant to be somewhat familiar.

"There's something to be said for that, too," Harry shrugged. "I did rather enjoy surprising Ginny—just sprung it on her at breakfast one morning. But no, what I mean about timing is… well, it just has to be the right point in your life together. I don't really know how to explain it exactly—it's just… a feeling, you know? When even if it's something you know you want eventually, you can't rush into it—life's too complicated… But then there's that day when you wake up and just feel like everything has clicked into place and all of a sudden there's no other choice, no fork in the road, no alternate Portkey. And then you know the time is right—for both of you—and you just have to marry her and her you and…" Harry trailed off, blushing again as he took in George's broad grin. "I sort of gushed a bit there, didn't I?" he smiled sheepishly.

George couldn't help it, Harry's fumbling explanation—filled as it was with a sort of realistic optimism—was, well, it was heartwarming. George might never admit that to Harry, but he could admit it to himself. "I'm glad you married my sister," George said instead with a small smile.

"Me too," Harry replied quietly.

The two young men sat in silence for a few moments before an enchanted memo whizzed through the door to nail Harry straight between the eyes.

"I wish I could get them not to do that," Harry muttered while rubbing his forehead. George struggled not to laugh as Harry unfolded the parchment and his face settled into a grim expression. "Listen, I'd better—" Harry began apologetically.

"Say no more," George interrupted as he stood. "Go save the world—before lunch."

"It's not_ that_ dire," Harry cracked a grin and stood as George made to leave.

"Thanks, for…" George added at the doorway.

"I just hope it helps," Harry offered with an encouraging smile.

"It does," George said softly as he made his way up the hall, waving to Olivia as he went. Though George didn't usually think of Harry in the same way as the Wizarding world at large, he couldn't help but feel somewhat reassured that even the great Harry Potter had had some troubles in finding the right moment. Yet George also remembered the rough patches Harry and Ginny had worked through in those early years—though George didn't know all of the details, he could see that they had some rebuilding to do. But he and Angelina… they were good; great, even.

Weren't they…?

* * *

George pondered this idea all the way back to Diagon Alley. By the time he reached the shop, he'd pretty well convinced himself that it really was just him.

Of course, this didn't make George feel much better. What on earth was wrong with him that he couldn't just _do_ this?

Upon entering the store, George was summarily greeted with his magenta robes soaring to land haphazardly on his head. Disentangling himself, he meant to shoot daggers at Ron, but was quickly distracted by the throngs of people queuing up for his help. Instead, he caught Ron's eye and made a face that he hoped begged forgiveness. He really hadn't meant to be so late.

George thought that the busy day was distracting him from his problems, but when Ron narrowly saved him from selling fireworks (only approved for of age wizards and above) to a disbelieving but unbearably hopeful ten year old, George had to admit defeat. At a lull—if you could call it that—in business around lunch, George allowed his little brother to pull him into the back office.

"Okay, it's awfully busy out there, so while as your brother I want you to know that I care, as your business partner I'm only going to ask this once: just _what_ is going on with you today? You're like a bloody Inferius out there," Ron asked briskly, though not without concern.

George gaped, slightly taken aback. "It's… complicated," he mumbled.

Ron sighed. "Where were you this morning, then?" he asked a bit more gently.

"I had to… to run some errands," George evaded. Yes, he wanted Ron's advice too, but this really wasn't the time.

"George, I don't care if they're beating down the door—we're staying here until you give me a straight answer because, to be honest, you haven't really been acting like yourself for some time now—yes, that's right, I noticed," Ron said irritably at George's raised eyebrows. "In case you forgot, I probably know you better than just about anyone, excepting Angelina, of course."

Ron must have noticed George's face grow tight at the mention of his girlfriend's name because Ron's own features softened somewhat. "She notices too, you know, how you've been acting," Ron added pointedly.

"Has she said anything to you?" George asked, fearing the answer.

"No," Ron said carefully, "but you don't spend this many years around Hermione without picking up on a thing or two."

George smiled, albeit halfheartedly. "I'm not trying to hurt her," he said softly. "Or put you out, either," he added, meeting Ron's eyes.

"I… I know," Ron replied, frowning. "I just… I wish you'd let me help."

George had to hand it to his baby brother. They'd come a long way since those first few tense months in the shop. "I know that," George replied. "I want the help, I've asked just about everyone I can think of…"

"Oh that's rich," Ron said, his ears reddening ever so slightly. "I am _always_ the last to know," he muttered to himself.

"Ron, it's not like that," George hurried to reassure him before the Weasley temper took hold. "I just knew I'd see you today, is all. That's why I went out this morning, to catch everyone else—to… to get the advice I needed."

Ron let out his breath slowly as his brow furrowed. "Is something… the matter?" he asked carefully, knowing better than to guess.

"Not exactly…" George began. "I don't—I don't… I can't seem to figure out how to ask Angelina to marry me…" he trailed off, looking at his shoes.

"Ahh…" Ron said knowingly, flushing a little. "I was a wreck, as I'm sure you recall."

George smiled, remembering. "Yes," he said, "so how did you do it, then? How did you actually _do _it?" George didn't realize how much he needed to hear the answer.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure…" Ron said, thinking. George's heart, meanwhile, sunk further into his stomach. "I tried to make it perfect," Ron continued, eyes unfocused. "I cooked her favorite meal and everything, but—well, it didn't work out as I'd planned," he smiled ruefully, returning his gaze to George. "See, Hermione had an emergency with the Goblin liaison or the Centaur emissary or some such nonsense and she didn't get home until nearly 3 in the morning. I'd passed out on the couch but I heard her come in. She looked so… sympathetic when she saw all the trouble I'd gone to that I think I fell in love with her all over again. At that point, none of the how or when really mattered anymore. I think I got down on one knee—said something nice… It made her cry, at any rate," Ron smiled sheepishly. "But I really don't remember any of it, because all that counts at that point is her answer. I think it was really only when she said yes that I started breathing properly again."

George considered this for a moment. "But," he said tentatively, "I mean—it mattered to her, right?"

Ron was grinning broadly now. "Well, when I came to my senses I worried about that too. But even Hermione doesn't remember many of the details—it's all a blur, she says."

George eyed his brother doubtfully. He didn't want to hurt Ron's pride, but… "This is _Hermione_ we're talking about, she remembers everything."

"What am I supposed to remember?"

George spun to find Hermione standing in the doorframe.

"Sorry," she said, flushing. "I didn't mean to interrupt, I just came to see if Ron had time for lunch today, but if this is bad time…" she trailed off, beginning to back out.

"No!" George shouted, causing her to stop in alarm. "I mean, no," he said at a more acceptable decibel. "Please stay—we're a bit busy to spare him today, but I really would like to know this…"

"Alright…" Hermione said, coming back into the small office.

"Do you honestly not remember how Ron proposed to you?" George blurted, deciding there was no beating around the bush with Hermione.

Hermione laughed for a moment before a look from Ron told her this was serious. "Well, no," she said, regaining her composure, "I really don't… I remember it happening, of course. And I remember how I was feeling—and how nervous Ron looked," she added with a small nudge to his ribs. "But the details are all a bit fuzzy," she finished, shrugging.

"Huh…" George said, mulling this over.

Hermione shifted her handbag on her shoulder as she made to leave again. "I'll see you tonight?" she said softly as she stood on tip-toe to kiss Ron's cheek. "And George? Just keep it simple, alright?"

"How—how did you—" George sputtered, but Hermione just smiled and rolled her eyes before shutting the door behind her.

"See," Ron said brightly, clapping George on the shoulder, "I told you, mate, it's all in the answer."

"Yea…" George replied distantly.

"You going to make it through the rest of the afternoon?" Ron asked lightly, though the seriousness was there behind the surface.

"Yea, yea, I will," George said, pulling his brain back into order. "And Ron—thanks."

"Don't mention it," Ron said with a small smile and led the way back to the floor.

_Keep it simple, eh?_ George thought as he returned to the front. He could do that… And he had to admit, there was a certain logic in what Ron had said.

So why did George still feel so… so… so _uneasy_?

* * *

George shot up in bed with a violent start. Though the details were quickly slipping away, his mind was still filled with fireworks and monstrously sized rings and magnified voices that sounded disturbingly like Percy reciting poetry from the top of the Astronomy Tower.

Wiping a clammy hand across his eyes, George stared grudgingly at the clock. It was still disgustingly early. But George knew he had no chance of falling back to sleep. This was the day—he was committed. He still had no idea what he was doing, though—and there was still that feeling at his very core that he was missing something. Something that would reassure him, make him feel… confident again.

Grudgingly, George swung his feet onto the floor, recoiling as they touched the cold wood. Placing them back again, he shuffled quickly to his chest of drawers and reached for a pair of socks.

His hands closed around an old magenta set—they were embroidered with a swirling monogram, something he and Fred had done on impulse when they were just starting out. As they shared the same initials in reverse, there were still times that George could pick up those socks and think that they could just as easily have been Fred's…

George fingered the gold stitching methodically as he mulled this over. He wasn't sure why, just yet, but the thought had set off a faint but persistent itch in the back of his mind.

It wasn't until he saw the small velvet box that his selection had unearthed that things started to click into place. He set the box on the dresser as he dressed quietly, pulling the well-worn socks carefully onto his feet.

George had just pulled on an old jumper when he heard Angelina stir behind him.

"George…?" she said blearily, as he hurriedly shoved the ring in his pocket, hoping she didn't see. "It's only 6:30 in the morning… come back to bed."

"I'm just going out for a bit," George murmured, stooping to kiss her furrowed brow. "Have a lie-in; I'll be back cooking breakfast for you by the time you get up."

"George, I—" she started to say, but he hushed her gently. He paused long enough to stroke her hair from her temple before rushing quietly from the room, hoping she wasn't awake enough yet to argue.

George was on a mission—he'd finally realized that there was one person's advice that he hadn't asked for. But it was exactly the one he needed.

* * *

George hesitated momentarily as he Apparated to the edge of the cemetery. Some days he still couldn't bring himself to Apparate directly _there_—it was too much of a shock. With a great sigh, however, he walked briskly to the all-too-familiar headstone.

"Morning…" he said softly, running his hand across the rough-hewn stone. "I know it's early, but I need you to wake up for this one—it's… it's important." George paused there, faded memories of Fred waking in the middle of the night to George's insistent whispers flooding back to him.

"I'm sorry I haven't told you this before," George went on, "but I'm planning on proposing to Angelina—today, in fact. I've told you how happy she makes me… and, yea, I reckon it's about time. But I've—and I can't believe I'm saying this—but I'm really not having the easiest time with the whole bloody business. I don't—I don't know what it is, I just, I can't—I can't seem to…" George trailed off, struggling to master his haggard breathing. "I need your help," he said emphatically, gripping the stone to keep his hands from shaking.

"You know what he'd say, don't you?" came a low voice from behind him.

George spun around, hurriedly wiping the tears that had been ready to fall with the back of his hand. "Charlie," he nearly choked. "What—what are you doing here?"

Charlie looked at the ground for a moment before looking somewhere over George's shoulder. "I—I come here most Sundays," he said quietly.

George nodded, understanding; though in truth, he'd never known that. "How much did you hear?" he ventured carefully.

"Enough," Charlie said simply, stepping closer.

"So you don't mind being the last Weasley bachelor, then?" George asked with a brave attempt at a smile.

Charlie smiled back, though there was a tinge of sadness in it. "Not really… and besides," he added with a gesture at the gray marble before them, "I'll never be the last one… Fred… I don't mind being in his company."

Both brothers swallowed hard as they looked down at the grave. George kept his eyes trained on the name etched indelibly in the cold, hard stone as he asked softly, "So what would he say?"

"What?" Charlie asked, looking up at last.

"You said you knew what Fred'd tell me," George said, meeting his brother's eyes. "I've asked everyone from Dad to Oliver, and I think… I think I still need to have his advice. It's… it's silly, isn't it?"

"No," Charlie said firmly, "no, it's not at all. But listen, George, I… I know I can't claim to be an expert on the subject, but you've got to notice the one thing they all have in common, right?"

George shook his head, feeling his heartbeat quickening dangerously.

"They all _love_ their wives," Charlie said patiently. "You know this George—you see it, that's why you asked their opinion."

"But, Fred—"

"Fred would make sure you recognized that," Charlie said firmly. "Above all else, Fred was about following your gut—and top of that, your heart. If you love her, then it will all fall into place. You just… you have to trust yourself, George."

George could hear his twin behind Charlie's words, that much was clear to him, but… "That's not always easy to do anymore… for most of my life it was never trusting _my_self—it was _ourselves_, together. Always together…"

"You make decisions in the shop, don't you?" Charlie asked gently.

"Sure, but… but the really big ones, the important ones—Ron is there to at least give me his judgment. I like being in it together; I'm starting to wonder if I know how to do it any other way…"

Charlie sighed and chewed his lip. "I think you're better than you think. But George—we all like to have someone by our side. It's natural—we have friends, and family… and George, you could have that with Angelina if you'd just let yourself."

"I can't… I can't replace him," George said quietly, looking at his feet.

"No one's asking you to—this is different. But it can be just as good, I think."

There was a faint _pop _from across the graveyard before George had the chance to respond. "Oh, George…" came the tired voice of Angelina Johnson, as she took in the scene before her. She stepped within a yard of the two brothers but didn't come any closer.

Charlie smiled between the pair for a moment before patting George heavily on the shoulder. "Go easy on him, Ange," he said wryly as he walked away, another _pop_ echoing in the early morning as he Disapparated.

"George—" Angelina began, taking a step closer.

"Before you say anything," George interrupted her, "I want to apologize for the way I've been behaving lately. I haven't been… I haven't been fair to you."

"Okay…" she said, the concern in her eyes shining through even as she narrowed them slightly.

George was about to go on, but he stopped, mouth open. Her eyes… he'd been avoiding them lately. But looking into them now he felt a certainty surge through him that he hadn't felt in months. Maybe it was something Charlie said—or any one of the pieces of advice he'd received in the last two days. Or maybe it was being here, where he often felt closest to Fred.

Or maybe, he though, it was just her. Her presence that gave him that strength—that sense of togetherness…

"You were going to say something?" she asked with just the slightest bit of impatience when George was still silent, lost in thought.

"Yes," he said quickly. "Well, actually, I have something to ask you… but, not here," he added, looking around. "Come somewhere with me?"

"Sure…" she said, utterly confused by George's admittedly strange behavior, but taking his proffered arm with a firm grip.

"Excellent," George said with some of his usual relish starting to seep back into his veins as they, too, Disapparated away.

* * *

The pair reappeared with a muffled thud onto their bed at home, head's grazing the ceiling. Angelina raised her eyebrows.

"I don't mean it like that," George hurriedly assured her. It had seemed right in his head… Well, it still did—if he could just explain it to her. He took a deep breath and grasped her hands, gently pulling her down to kneel with him on the bedspread. "It's just that…" he trailed off, searching for the right words.

"Yes…?" she said, one eyebrow still raised.

"It's just that this is the one place," he went on, gradually finding a certain rhythm, even if his brain didn't quite seem to know what he was saying before he said it. "This is the one place where it's just us—it was the first place that I could tell that you, _you_ were the one that made me happier than I could ever deserve to be—it's… it's just simple," he said with a smile. She was clutching his hands tightly, encouraging and anticipating at the same time. He was glad she seemed to know not to interrupt him now.

"I know this might not be… how I'm supposed to do it," George continued, "but this is the way that feels right—just like today feels right and the words, somehow by the grace of Godric, feel right," he almost laughed, unable to keep the grin off of his face. "And I hope," he said, pulling the ring from his pocket, "that this will feel right to you… because right now all that matters to me is that you'll agree to be my wife. I love you so much, Angelina, and if you don't say yes—I think, I think it will be the end of me," he finished, with a small and genuinely nervous grin.

George's heart may very well have stopped beating in that split second when Angelina looked, wide eyed, from his eyes, to the ring, and back to him. Then her features spread into the widest smile he'd ever seen. "I thought you'd never ask," she said.

George stared at her disbelievingly for a moment before she started to laugh, and carefully guided his hand to place the ring on her finger. It was then that George started to laugh too, gathering her into his arms as they fell in ecstatic hysterics onto the bed—together.

* * *

**A/N: So I started out intending to take a break from the angstier side of things and write something lighthearted for dear old George—but it seems I couldn't break away entirely. I hope you enjoyed it either way—but how will I know if you don't **_**review**_**…? :)**


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